


Sharp Glance

by Beleriandings



Category: Akatsuki no Yona | Yona of the Dawn, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Gondolin, Psychological Torture, Seiryuu Maeglin AU, Silmarillion characters with Akayona dragon powers, Tragedy, Unrequited obsession, roughly follows the events of Silm canon, the fall of Gondolin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:06:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9814646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: "Then he called him Maeglin, which is Sharp Glance, for he perceived that the eyes of his son were more piercing than his own, and his thought could read the secrets of hearts beyond the mist of words."[ie. the Seiryuu Maeglin crossover AU we needed in our lives]





	

It was always dark in the forest. That was what Maeglin remembered later, though at the time it had never seemed dark. The trees’ thick canopy arched overhead, but it couldn’t stop him from seeing the sky, any more than the low roof above him when he fell asleep at night, wrapped in thick furs to keep the cold at bay. The sky was always different, and bright even at night, stars splashed brilliantly across a sky that was impossibly wide. He had asked his mother about those stars, learned their names in the language of her people. But she could only tell him the names of some of them, he soon realised. She had to go outside to see them, and even then she missed all but the brightest of them. She couldn’t see them at all in the day, when the sun lit the forest with a cool, diffuse green light.

He felt sorry for her, in that. He wished he could show her those stars, but she had never been able to see as well as he could. And yet, he knew, she had seen things that he had never dreamed of, a great, bright world filled with light across the sea. Far across the land, there was a whole world filled with beautiful things to see; he vowed that he would see it one day, and take her out of this forest with him.

After all, she deserved better than a place like this, dark and lightless. He would help her escape, and when they did, he would point to every star in bright sky and give them names, even the ones too dim for her eyes to see.  

It was all a matter of waiting for the right moment, of seeing his chance.

*****

It took some years, but the chance came in the end. When it did he seized it for both their sakes.

The wrapped leather of the scabbard was cool, smooth and unassuming as Maeglin let his hand linger on it, thinking of the black steel within. _That steel that was sharp enough to pierce a heart, to spill blood and end a life_ … Maeglin’s eyes could do that too though, with no blood spilled; only in his mind did the dragon tear joyously into its prey when he let his power loose. But it amounted to the same thing; with one look, he could cut a life short as easily as a sword could cut through flesh.

He was named for that, after all. Maeglin, _sharp glance_ , the name his father had given him.

A thought bloomed in his mind as he hesitated, his hand closed lightly on the sword in its scabbard. If he needed to fight, he need not use his eyes, now. There were other things he could be, than his father’s son, perhaps.

And if he never used his eyes, would he not be just like everyone else? Could he not then become part of that bright shining world of his mother’s stories?

_No, Maeglin. No you can’t. It’s in your blood, and in your name. You will never, ever be one of them._

He shut the voice out; he had to believe that he could be more than the monster he was. Eöl had used the sword, though Maeglin had never actually seen him do so. But rogue bands of orcs did sometimes come to the borders of Nan Elmoth. And borders, of course, must be kept.

But really, Maeglin knew, Eöl mostly made the sword for the pride of his own workmanship. If Maeglin were to take it… his fingers twitched, as he looked through the leather of the scabbard to see black steel, rippled in its tempering, like clouds in that great beautiful sky he looked up at in the nights.

“Lómion, come! There isn’t much time!”

His mother’s voice, her urgent whisper, cut into his thoughts, reminding him where he was, what he was doing. On an impulse, his fingers closed on the scabbard, and the sword was in his hands as he pulled his mask down and his cloak closer about his shoulders, and hurried out of the door. “…Yes. I am coming, mother.”

*****

He saw the dart coming, of course, brilliant sunlight glinting off metal as it cut a straight course through the air.

She had seen it too though, or perhaps she had simply known that it would come before it even left Eöl’s hand; Maeglin himself had not thought that his father would do something like that.

Well, perhaps she had known him a little better than Maeglin had.

He could see exactly how far it had pierced her shoulder; it was only a shallow wound. The sort of thing that might heal, soon, blood vessels knitting back together and skin growing over, leaving only a ridged scar that would fade from purple-pink to silvery brown.

But he had not been able to see one thing. The poison on the blade tip had been a clear one, and the merest trace was enough; easy to miss, even for the eyes of Seiryuu. Especially when those eyes were filling with tears, as the world spun and the bright light of this new world seemed too much almost, as he raised his mask, very slowly. Eöl stared right back at him then, as people crowded around Aredhel’s fallen form. Just before Turgon’s people had seized him, he had met Maeglin’s gaze as though to say, _go on. You could kill me, as I am now. Do it. Let the dragon devour me. It will be you that is cursed._

He hadn’t done it, and he had regretted it later, whenever the darkness and the grief coiled and clotted in his heart. He could have killed Eöl then and there, seen his heart, let the dragon tear it out. Tore it out himself, for what different was there, really? Not that it would have made any difference, but perhaps, he thought, it might have made him feel better, if only for a moment before he fell into blackness himself as the power in his eyes stole away his consciousness, his control over his body.

Either way though, he had not done that. Instead, he had covered his eyes again, whirling about to turn back to his mother as the guards moved in on Eöl. There was blood on the ground, but she was awake then, conscious and trying to sit up, reaching out for Maeglin. He had taken her hand then, and it had as warm as always, squeezing his own.  

The warmth had fled from her skin before the night had ended.

As they buried her in a high cairn, as he watched his father flung from the walls in the shifting sunlight of a windy morning of scattered clouds, he wondered how his life had changed so quickly. A mere few days ago, he had been back in the quiet darkness of Nan Elmoth, longing to leave. His father had threatened to set him in bonds, yes, but at least he knew who he was.

Now, he had little idea even of that.

The people here were all from his mother’s stories. Stories of light, a family, and laughter. There was light here, there was so _much_ of it; more light than he had ever seen before.

But there was also a darkness that seemed to live inside his own mind. Perhaps, he thought sometimes, he had taken a little of the dark of Nan Elmoth with him when he had left. He had never minded the darkness - he could see just as well as in the light - but others feared it, he knew. Most people feared the darkness, even if they said they didn’t.

That was not what he wanted to be, a creature of darkness.  

The days slipped strangely by, and often Maeglin walked around the city, or climbed high up on the peak where his mother was buried, looking out over the valley. There was a memorial for her, a statue in brilliant white, still and cold and solemn. He would often sit beside it, for hours and hours at a time, leaning his head against the side of the podium and feeling the scrape of the wood of his mask against the stone. He would close his eyes then, and stay still until someone came to find him.

Not that they often did come to find him.

Idril did though, sometimes; in those early days at least. His eyes always widened a little with wonder whenever she came to check he was alright. She was so _golden_ , he thought; a creature of the light, as he was a creature of the darkness. He had always loved to look up at the moon, the stars, but she was the sun at midday. Too bright, perhaps, for others to look at. But perhaps, Maeglin thought - hoped, really - _he_ would be able to, to be the one person who was enough for her. The hope lit a secret light in his heart, a bright point in the darkness.

He had left the forest to step into the light, and though the world was still dark after his mother’s death - that had been a darkness like none he had ever known - if anyone could save him, he thought, it was Idril. The king’s daughter was everything of the stories he had been told as a child, surrounded by a warm golden glow, a creature of an older and more beautiful world of light. The bright, delicate necklace she wore came from Valinor and was bestowed on her by the Valar themselves, it was whispered in the streets; he never asked but he thought it must be true, because how could it not be? She walked barefoot across the pale stone flagstones in every season, as though the cold, unyielding world could not touch her eternal brightness, as though she radiated a warmth all her own, spilling out to warm him too whenever she was near.  

Simply put, she gave him hope, and for that, he loved her with his whole heart.

(He should have known, he thought with bitterness, years later, that that would never be enough.)

*****

There was to be a battle, and he refused - simply refused - to be left behind, even as regent; Turgon doubted him still, for how could he not? Turgon had not seen Maeglin’s power. He didn’t know what Maeglin could really do. Maeglin had told him, yes, but no one really believed it until they saw it.

With him there, Maeglin thought, then surely they could win this battle, the orcs of Morgoth falling down limp and nerveless at his feet, or fleeing in terror, only to be caught by the dragon in his eyes that would devour them. They would be destroyed, and these lands would be safe again; safe because of him. Perhaps being a hero might make him a little less a monster.

_Besides, wasn’t it all he was good for?_

( _And_ , said some small part of him that had not given up torturous hope, _surely then she must pay you notice, must come to love you?_ )

Still, he put that thought aside as he rode to the battlefield at Turgon’s side. Maeglin wore armour and carried his father’s sword, but if all went to plan, he would never have cause to rely on either. At this stage, it was his job to look ahead, to tell them that the way was clear for them to pass to come to Fingon’s aid. The way was clear though, that bright morning; nothing was in their way, and they were greeted with joy and triumph by the kin that Maeglin would surely get to meet, once this was over.

In his head he ran over plans and precautions. He had his sword to fight with, as well as his eyes. He knew - for his father had taught him, with pain and harsh words - that his power was also his vulnerability, so he knew he must not use it too soon, or rashly. And he could trust  the other Lord of the city, his comrades-in-arms, to come to him when the paralysis backfired on him and he fell, immobile and semi-conscious, vulnerable as a sleeping child on the battlefield.

This Maeglin knew; still, trusting other people had never been a natural talent of his.

He hacked and slashed with his father’s sword at the orcs coming at him thick and fast in the heat of battle. Their blood was a slightly different black against the dark sheen of the blade. The field was nearly lost, and they didn’t have much time, they had to make a retreat or die fighting their way out.

 _It had to be now_.

He concentrated, raising his mask and focussing his mind to let the long-suppressed power come to the surface, letting the fierce dragon behind his eyes rise and stare out at the world through them. It came easily, and after a moment the orc right in front of him was falling, twitching and screaming, as it saw a great shining dragon reach down for it, tearing into it with merciless teeth and claws.

Maeglin paid his enemy’s terrified death throes little heed, though. _There were more, so many more, and he had the power to help Turgon escape_ … it even began to feel good, to see their hearts beat their last, to carpet the ground with the enemy’s dead. Once, perhaps, that pleasure would have bothered him, but in that moment he found he could not remember why.

All too soon though, he felt his own awareness begin to flicker and shift nauseatingly, his body beginning to lose feeling, his limbs useless and weak.

As his knees gave way and he pitched forward, he saw Huor, Húrin and Turgon coming towards him with a group of survivors, whispering with their heads together for just a moment before parting.

Something about that gave him a bad feeling - a sudden jolt of foresight, perhaps, undercut with hatred of those mortals who burned so bright - but before another moment had passed he was falling to the blood-churned mud of the fen of Serech, the darkness closing over his head.

*****

The field was lost, and the walls and gates of the city closed. At least to most people; not to Maeglin. He was, as always, an exception to the rules.  

He had a purpose, now; _he had that much at least_ , he often thought as he scrambled over rocks and scree slopes in the mountains around the city. He had something he could do these days, something that would help. He had always been able to see the ores embedded in the rocks. Seams of metal below the ground that would never be detected otherwise were clear enough to his piercing gaze. Turgon needed that ability; Gondolin needed it. Going out to find it was something that only Maeglin could do, something he could take pride in.

_So why did it never feel like enough?_

He had an answer for that too, he thought as he kicked a rock, sending it bouncing dizzyingly down into a steep, dry gully at his side. It was her; Idril, the shining one made of light, light that would never be his. And it was the city, too. He wondered if he had ever really believed he could be one of them. For how could a monster like him ever belong?

The hastily suppressed fear curling up behind their eyes was enough, by now, to tell him all he needed to know. They had seen him in battle now, and those that hadn’t been there had heard the stories. His power was known now - no longer just a rumour of the strangeness of the king’s nephew - and feared. Anyone else might have missed them, those quickly hidden flickers of mistrust. But Maeglin didn’t. Maeglin didn’t miss anything, and what’s more he quickly knew them for what they were. _When you are trapped with a dangerous and unpredictable beast, never show it that you are afraid. Don’t let it see your fear. Don’t look in its eyes._

He wore a mask over his eyes most of the time, these days. He had done that before, of course, but then it had been more of a habit, leftover from his childhood in the forest. Now it was for it’s own reason, to deflect prying eyes, quiet their fears at least in some measure.

Over the years he had withdrawn from them all though, anyway. He had seen too much of their fear.

Besides, he didn’t need them, he often told himself. Far better to do what he was good at; finding things beneath the ground. And far better that he did it alone.

If his years in the city had taught him anything, they had taught him that.

He frowned, drawing his travelling cloak closer about himself in the cold mountain air. The ground here was poor, in this valley, and there was little of any value in the soil that he hadn’t already found. He supposed he should go back soon, for the night was drawing in fast.

 _Or you could stay away all night_ , said a voice in his head. _It’s not as though you’d have any trouble seeing your path in the dark. Oh, did you think anyone would miss you? The city’s better off when you’re gone, you and your curse._

He squeezed his eyes closed and touched his fingers to the hilt of his father’s sword, very gently.

*****

He saw them coming; of course he did. It was near full dark, but his eyes were easily able to pierce the gloom of the little mountain gully on a night of oppressive cloud.

Still, that didn’t mean that there was anything he could do to escape. That was the thing about his power, he thought in some small part of his mind that was not tensed and focussed on the fight that must surely come. That was the real curse; he could only watch warily as he was surrounded, the ways forward and back along the dry stream bed through the deep ravine cut off as scrambling, booted footsteps crunched on the dry stones.

At least he had a good view all the while as they came.

Maeglin glanced nervously to each side as they approached, up the shear cliff walls on either side. Not much hope of escape that way, he decided, licking his lips nervously. Most orcs could climb, and much faster than he could. He turned back and tried to judge their strength, his hand lingering on his sword hilt. Soon, he began to hear the clink of chainmail, the sound of swords being drawn with care for quietness.

He almost laughed at that; if they had thought to ambush a lone traveller out of Gondolin, they would soon find out just who they were dealing with.

And yet, he realised with a sinking feeling, they may as well have ambushed him for all the good the warning his sight had given him would do him. He cursed silently to himself. He was in a bad place, there was little he could do to fight his way out. There really were very many of them, Maeglin thought. Orcs, kin of the cruel creatures he had felled in swathes in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, their grotesque faces contorted with fear even as their bodies spasmed, fell, and gone still, caught in the full gaze of his dragon’s eyes.

At the memory, his hand slipped away from the sword hilt, and he sighed. He knew what he had to do.

His eyes smarted a little in pain at the thought - he must be careful not to burn through his control, to use his power minimally so as not to lose himself - and yet even as he considered that, he felt a sick sort of anticipation spike through him.

Maeglin did not precisely enjoy taking life - _no, no, never that, he was never cruel, not that way_ \- but he could not deny that each time he used his power, even as he felt consciousness slip away, a burning exhilaration raced through his veins; this was what he was made for, this bloodlust, the hungry dragon set free at last to devour their hearts.

He told himself it was all the dragon within him; it had to be that way, lest he break.

 _Lest he become_ -

Maeglin shook his head, interrupting that thought before it was fully born; there was, after all, a much more pressing situation at hand. There were many orcs, and he had to do his work thoroughly, catching all of them full in his golden gaze. If any escaped, and remained alive when he was falling, senseless and nerveless, to the ground… well, he had best hope that did not happen.

This power, he thought sometimes, must have been given first to someone who was expected to work with others. It was not well suited to being used by someone out on their own.

Still, it was all he had. And after all, Maeglin had been alone for a long time now, even when surrounded by people.

He squared his shoulders as they closed in. It must be exactly the right moment too; too early, and there would still be more coming around the bend in the valley floor when he fell. Too late, and swords might come dangerously close; he risked the enemies who were slower to succumb getting through to him with sharp steel.

It was all a matter of precise timing.

Maeglin took a deep breath, gaze met by perhaps a hundred or so eye-slitted helms of spiked black iron.

Slowly, he raised his hands and slipped off the mask that covered his eyes.

*****

Blackness. That was all he knew, for a long while, and for some time he simply drifted there, unsure whether he was asleep or awake.

Although, he reflected in a surprisingly clear part of his mind, he must surely be asleep. After all, the only moments in his life when he had known true blackness were in his dreams.

Maeglin almost smiled at that. If it was a dream, then things were easier; as a child, he had taught himself to control his dreams. Once he knew he was dreaming, then he could do anything within the dream. He could fly to the sky, swim the deepest depths. He could see _her_ gazing back into his eyes freely, with wonder and love instead of pity and the slight, veiled dislike she could never quite hide from him; impossible things he could never do while awake.

But if it was a dream, he could also wake up from it. That was another skill he had taught himself, long ago, after his father had died, or whenever the nightmares had come roaring out of the boiling darkness, the screams of the people the dragon in him had devoured dying on his own lips. He had learned to pull himself out of that darkness, in time. It had taken long practice and many weary, wakeful nights, but he knew how to wake himself from nightmares, the only time he saw true blackness. He had done it before, so he could do it now, too.

_So why wasn’t it working?_

Maeglin blinked, frowning in the darkness in which he floated. _If he could only see_ …

He frowned. _Just do it! Wake up!_

Still nothing. Maeglin was beginning to fear, now. _Why wasn’t it working? Why couldn’t he see?_

It was only when he tried to reach out - groping blindly with trembling fingers in the darkness - that he realised he couldn’t _feel_ anything either. He didn’t even have a sense of which way up his body was. Or maybe he had no body at all, his spirit floating forever in a void where time and light meant nothing.

He began to cry out in fear, but he had no voice, fingers clawing desperately at the fabric of the nothingness around him. Then at where his face should be, as though to tear at whatever strange, impossible shadows could blind his eyes merely by covering them.

There was nothing, of course; there wasn’t even a face there, nor did he have hands at all, and his screams made not a sound in the blackness, for there was no sound here.

But no; there _was_ a sound.

Scratching, dry laughter, mocking and painful. It was not a _real_ sound, sent through the air and heard with his ears; _for how could such a thing exist here, whatever sort of nowhere here was?_

No, this sound seemed to come as much from inside whatever there was left of him as from outside, reverberating through his being, clawing at his heart.

Laughter, and a cruel voice, twisted through with the screams of dying men.

_Seiryuu._

Maeglin couldn’t speak, but even if he had been able to, he would have had no words to say; the flickering flame of him caught like an animal before a hunter.

_How nice of you to join me. I have to thank you; you had the consideration to fall right into my hands._

_Who are you?_ Maeglin wanted to say, but before he could even think the words, that laugh came again.

_You know who I am._

Even as the words wound their way into his mind, a name came too, twisted with them in the coiling dark space. _Morgoth. The Dark Lord._

 _That’s a very reductive way to put it_ , said the voice, that cruel laugh piercing through Maeglin once more. _For I am so much more. But I will take it. You will find out in time, little dragon._

Maeglin tried vainly not to let a single thought pass through his head; he would not let this dark one see inside him as easily as he saw the hearts of others.

_Oh, but you already have. I’ve seen more than you know, sharp-eyed one._

“What have you seen?“ Maeglin shouted out in his head, reckless anger suddenly pulsing through his veins. “Tell me!”

 _Your heart_.

With the words, came light again; a strange ghost light, blue and pulsing out from inside Maeglin, where he knew by some instinct that his heart show be. It limned his body, picking out his hands and feet and chest and shooting through his veins, sending sparks of sudden pain through his eyes. And suddenly he _knew_ this light; it was like the light of the sense he had once had of his father, the blue light of the dragon power that welled within him, burning through his body in clear detail, making his heart visible as it would be to anyone’s eyes. He felt suddenly naked, exposed and shuddering as he hung alone in a vast void. He closed his eyes and turned away, but he could still see; of course he could. He had sensation again, the touch of his hands, the feeling of his own body, but suddenly all he could feel was pain, shooting through him, ricocheting from the burning in his eyes through every single nerve.

“What do you want from me?” Maeglin tried to say, but his voice came out merely as a gasp, as he twisted backwards, trying to breath.

He must have been understood though, for there was another laugh. _Not so much. One thing only_.

“My… power?” Turgon had warned him about this possibility, that if his power became too widely known he would be hunted, used. Maeglin had never really taken the possibility seriously, though. Dread welled inside him. “I won’t give it to you!”

A dry crackling laugh. “Commendable. Very brave. But no, in truth. It’s not your power I need.”

Maeglin blinked, taken aback, causing a renewed shock of pain to pass through his eyes. “N-No…?”

“Oh no. For you, I have a much, much simpler task in mind.” A laugh, once more, endless and grotesque, echoing in the void. “Now…. shall we begin?”

*****

It was dark again, and Maeglin was screaming. He was not sure he had stopped in a long time; he could barely hear his own voice anymore, though he could taste blood in his mouth, his throat raw and burning.

“What do you want from me?” he whispered, too weak to do anymore.

“You know what I want.”

Maeglin did. He had lost count of the number of times they had had this conversation, this endless loop as he hung alone and senseless in the blackness of a waking nightmare of pain. “I’ll never tell you the location” he choked out, nevertheless.

A burning in his eyes, cutting through him, cutting through the blind numbness. Maeglin convulsed, screaming, though he had done so so many times it was a wonder he had any voice left at all.  

“Tell me” said the voice, silkily, “and I will give you her.”

Maeglin trembled, thinking desperately of shining gold. She was his strength, the brilliant outline of a figure he looked to to lead him through the darkness, but he was beginning to think that the voice in the darkness could read his mind, could use her against him. “N-no” he stammered. _No, he couldn’t consider yielding, he couldn’t… it was false, they would both be killed. Everyone in the city would die, its brightness flickering out. He couldn’t give up. He couldn’t let that happen_. It was getting harder and harder to keep such thoughts in his head though; they kept slipping away like sand from a clenched fist.  

“Tell me…. and I’ll restore your sight. You’ll be strong again, just like your father.”

Maeglin would have sobbed, if he could have. “No!”

That laugh, cruel and mocking. “Unfortunate. Well, if that’s your answer…. we will carry on until you change your mind.”

*****

(He had broken in the end, after who knew how long in that empty darkness where time and light did not exist, interspersed by pain. He had mumbled out a location, utterly wrung out and broken. He had known it would come in the end; like the voice said, it had been only a matter of time.)

*****

The days slipped one into another as the city carried on around him; he felt more isolated than ever, as though he were watching the people he hd known go about their daily lives from a distance. He could almost believe it had all been a dark dream, if he hadn’t lost his mask; he wore a bandage across his eyes instead now, and some days it was the only thing reminding him of what had happened. If anyone else noticed any change in him, they said nothing, and the sense of unreality hung over him even as the sun rose and set, counting out the city’s last days.

Their time was running out, he knew, and it was his fault.

Idril knew too, somehow, he became convinced. She was building a secret passage; Maeglin could see it under the city, below rock and stone. She glimmered with gold as ever, as he watched her laugh with her husband, cradle her son, look to the needs of her people. _If things had been different_ -

But no, he could not think like that, lest he break too soon. These days, he took care not to observe her when she could also see him; her looks of mistrust, suspicion - and especially those of pity - turned him to dark thoughts and brought him a little closer to breaking apart, when he was struggling every day to appear whole and unbroken.  

Still, it would not be long now, he knew with a dull certainty. He would not have to endure this for much longer.

He watched, and said nothing, and his heart broke a little more with each passing day.  

*****

When the fall finally came, it was almost a relief.

He could see through the smoke already rising from the city. He could see all the people within, their fear driving them as they struggled to get out, even as they choked, or were crushed by falling masonry, or their blood spilled by the sharp blades of the orcs. _How many small hearts, their beats flickering away to nothing as he watched? The whole city_ …. _why, it almost rivalled what he himself could do, if he put his eyes to their ultimate use._

He ought to get out, he knew, but somehow he felt surprisingly unconcerned as the city fell about him, as fear and death unfolded in a grim tableau of flame and blood and the smoke that roiled upwards into the evening air, lit from below by the red of the balrogs’ fire.

Dragons swooped low in the air above the city too; he realised, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he had never seen a dragon in the flesh before. Still, he knew, they were not _real_ dragons; not like the gods whose power lay behind his eyes. They were merely mechanical toy versions, engineered for destruction but poor copies by comparison, and for all their fire, they could not do half of what he could do.

It was then that he noticed that his fingers had slipped open the knot of his blindfold, without his conscious effort to do so. The cloth fluttered to the ground in the gentle, hot wind, catching on a small fire that burned a little way off. Maeglin followed it with his gaze as the corner of the cloth caught aflame, curling into glowing ash as it rose high into the air and out of sight.    

He felt strangely calm, the roaring of the fires and the screams of the dying fading into the background.  

Whatever happened today, he knew, it would be the last day; it seemed as though the world itself was about to end, and his own sorry life with it.

*****

He stood on the walls now, watching from behind a merlon as Idril hurried people down the entrance to the tunnel, shouting commands over the noise. The sight made his heart ache, as did the fact that he could never, ever go to her.

A movement in his peripheral vision - almost behind him - caught his attention then, and he whirled about, only to draw in a breath, shock stretching the moment out as he looked down and met a gaze that he had tried to avoid each day, these last years.

“M-Maeglin?” A child’s shy, stammering voice.

 _Eärendil?_ He must have wandered away from his parents, thought Maeglin, in the part of his mind that was still able to think clearly. Idril was not far away but distracted, and Tuor was still in the city…. Maeglin looked down at the child, his large blue eyes wide with fear - probably at the sight of Maeglin himself - golden hair blowing across his face in the hot, smoky wind rolling off the burning city to the walls.

“I mean… ah…L-lord cousin Maeglin?” mumbled the child, his small hands bunching in the hem of his tunic. He was wearing the golden pendant that Idril usually never took off - _and oh, the way it had rested against her skin, he could have looked and looked for hours_ \- she must have given it to him for luck, Maeglin thought.

Eärendil looked so much like her, Maeglin thought with sudden clarity. Golden, shining bright even in the gathering darkness. Anger and disgust - some amount of it directed at himself - roiled suddenly up within him, and his face twisted in hatred.

The child did not exactly shrink back, but rather he froze, like a creature of the dark forest caught suddenly in the bright glare of a lamp.

But no, this was not a child of the darkness; not like Maeglin. This was a child of the light, undeserved as it was, and he felt a renewed stab of rage.

Before he knew what he was doing, he felt his power surge up again all at once in his eyes, so suddenly that it burned to be released, the dragon hungering to devour the object of his anger, instinctive and vital and inhuman.

It made Maeglin gasp, catching him off-guard; it was the first he had really _felt_ for months, and he chased that burning inside him, pushing down the voice that would have once cried out caution.

Eärendil was right there, and he was her son, yes, but he was also _his_ son. _That unworthy mortal, that interloper_. That was what Maeglin would have thought, anyway, had he tried to justify what he did next to his old self; but he had passed far, far beyond such thoughts now, his eyes fixed on the blue ones of the child below him, widening in sudden fear.

He is their child, the proof of all that had gone wrong. _He deserved it; all who anger the dragon must be consumed._

Maeglin let his power rise. Eärendil was starting to choke out a cry as the paralysis began to grip him, letting out a high, keening whine, Maeglin’s awareness in turn beginning to dim at the edges. It felt good, monstrously, animalistically satisfying though; something long-buried in him rising up, stripping away all the weakness and fear in mere moments.

That was when it happened.

A figure, flinging itself between Maeglin and the child in a sweep of bright gold, wrapping the boy in protective arms and lifting him.

Blue eyes met Maeglin’s with a look of such burning hatred it made him stumble back, snapping his grip on his victim like a physical blow.

 _Wait…. how could that happen?_ The dragon screamed its displeasure at having its meal taken away in Maeglin’s head, making him reel with disorientated nausea.

” _You will not touch him._ “

He gasped. _Could it really be… her?_ No, he must be having some sort of dream, a waking nightmare vision. But no, he realised, his sword in his hand without him having consciously drawn it. This was no false vision at all.

It was her.

Idril met his gaze with fury burning in her crystalline blue eyes, met his gaze as no one ever had before, utterly without fear. She held Eärendil close to her chest, and he clung to her, pressing his face to her shoulder and sobbing.

But Maeglin had not a glance to spare for him by now; his whole attention was on trying to hastily claw back at the power he had already released, for no matter how far gone he was, he could never hurt her. This went deep to the core of him, yet still, now his power had been freed it was hard to close it in again.

Or it should have been. Something was wrong here, Maeglin realised an instant later. For when he looked back at Idril, it _wasn’t_ as though he had to draw his power back; he merely felt the dragon claw at her and have no effect, the power simply glancing off her, striking phantom golden sparks as her blue eyes met his like cold, unyielding steel.

She was resisting him, he realised in the part of his mind that was not a chaotic blur. Somehow, his power couldn’t harm her. He could think of no reason why that should be, _unless_ …

"Idril! Eärendil!”

A new voice made them both whirl to one side, cutting through the moment like a sword slash; Maeglin’s face twisted with hatred once more, and with hatred came renewed clarity.

 _Tuor_. That man was the one who was at fault here, the would _truly_ want to kill, given the choice. He would even let the child live, but he’d be damned if he didn’t kill Tuor himself, sending him to whatever dark oblivion mortals were destined for.

His eyes were prickling and watering, his limbs beginning to feel weak and heavy with impending paralysis, the price of his power.

But he still had a sword in his hand.

He hefted the weight of his father’s sword even as Tuor hurried towards them along the battlement, backlit by the burning city. Tuor was wearing only a light mail shirt by way of armour; it would be absurdly easy, a well-placed thrust with the broad blade would pierce his flesh and spill his blood on the stones before they fell to valley floor in the wreck of the city.

Tuor had a sword himself, but Maeglin was a stronger swordsman even weakened as he was; how could this child-man of a mere three decades ever compare?

Tuor was close, and Maeglin stepped forward, firelight reflecting off black galvorn in a bright streak of burning red.

Another brilliant flash of gold, his arm juddering with a hard impact as unyielding steel met his blade; it was closer than he had expected, but no, _surely he had not misjudged the position_ …

 _No_. Something else had met his stroke, something harder than steel, moving so fast that in his single-minded focus he had not even seen it coming.

His eyes widened once more.

A hand gripped his blade, glimmering with iridescent golden scales harder than any armour. In his head he felt the sense of a bright golden light that had been there all his life flare again, as he saw Idril gaze back at him from the other side of his blade, her hand gripping his sword with her bare, golden-scaled palm but shedding not a drop of blood, even as she still cradled her son in her other arm. Tuor was behind her, and his eyes were just as wide as Maeglin’s. But still Idril held on with a grip of steel, scales flickering and sparkling in the light of the burning.

“You…” he choked out. He couldn’t say it; but, he was quickly realising, perhaps he had always known on some level. “You’re…” he couldn’t say it; he had never known, and yet somehow, he _had_ known. That golden warmth that had always enveloped her, drawing him to her with enduring brightness, shining like the very sun itself.

“Yes, cousin” she snarled back at him, her face dark with anger now as the scales began to spread from her hand up her arm, slipping below her tunic and appearing again at her throat. “Yes, I am Ouryuu. And I will never, ever…” she jerked the sword to one side, with almost enough force to knock Maeglin off his feet, and more than enough to make him hiss with pain as his wrists were twisted around. It hurt, but not as much as seeing the hatred in her eyes.

“… never ever let you touch my family.” She shielded Tuor with her body, the golden brightness he had always sensed now turning into a nimbus of light in his head all around her, rolling out in crashing waves as she cradled Eärendil closer with her other arm, balancing the child on her hip. “For as long as the world lives, I will live, and I will protect those I love forever from the likes of _you_.”

He was so shocked that he could only stare as she carefully handed her son to Tuor, who cradled him close.

*****

Their fight was not a long one.

Maeglin was weakened already, his heart too sick and broken to really fight her, even as hatred and love warred within him. Her scales flashed and reflected the light of the burning like a bright creature of avenging light, and he was but a weak, pitiful, broken thing.    

Maeglin had a good deal of experience of falling; the sick sensation of the loss of feeling in his limbs, the weakness that slipped over him, causing his legs to give way beneath him and the ground to come up to meet his inert body, the world spinning above him as he fell in slow motion.

This was completely different.

He barely knew what he was doing as he hit back at her in fear and pain and exhaustion - _oh, my golden one, make the pain go away, end this_ , some part of him cried out, his very heart cracking into pieces - but when he stepped too far, over the edge of the battlement, it all became very suddenly clear. All it took then was a slight overbalancing - _a push from her, a conscious letting go… but what was the difference really?_ \- to send him falling backwards. The last thing he saw of her was a flash of gold against the grey sky as he fell, past the white walls of the city, the exact place where his father had fallen, all those years before. _Of course it was._

Overhead, the sky was dark, opaque; or perhaps that was just the darkness closing over his head as he lay broken and half-dying on the rocks, his vision finally, _finally_ , beginning to cloud, to fade.

It had been a long time coming.

He almost laughed, then, through the tears clouding his eyes. He, of all people, should have seen what would happen. Perhaps he had; perhaps he had not allowed himself to really look.

He could feel his dragon’s power leaving him, for the very first time and at long, long last. He wondered, as the blindness came, whether the dragon’s eyes would be passed on to someone new, some poor unfortunate child he had never seen.

He spared them barely a thought though as his consciousness drifted, lost in a never-ending dark space where he floated, untethered from his body, blind and senseless. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t think what, not now. He wondered vaguely if this was how other people felt, this blindness. _Ah, but I didn’t deserve to think and feel like a human_ , he thought, at the very end. _Even in this moment_. He knew he could - should, perhaps - ask for forgiveness, but there was no one who could grant it, no one who ever should.

_But then again, perhaps that was how it was always going to end._

Maeglin’s blind eyes slipped closed, and it was a relief when the blackness came at last.

 


End file.
